


Bound By Blood

by soniaoutloud



Category: Hindu Religions & Lore, Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Enemies, Gen, Hindu Character, Hinduism, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soniaoutloud/pseuds/soniaoutloud
Summary: an alternative setting where on the tenth day of the Kurukshetra War Bheeshm dies, but at the hands of Shikhandi instead of Arjun
Relationships: Amba | Shikandi/Bhishma (Mahabharata)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20
Collections: Hindu Mythology Event





	Bound By Blood

**Author's Note:**

> — for Preyanksha, "B" and everyone at the AHM discord; I hope this makes y'all cry :)

Shikhandi had never felt alive.

There was a pyre at the center of their chest instead of a heart; a hollow pit where _Amba of Kashi_ took her _agnisamadhi_ , again and again with each breath they took.

Sometimes, Shikhandi felt as if their skin was being scorched by the flames of that samadhi, eaten alive by the insatiable fire which had incinerated Amba, felt as if her last gasping breathes were still somewhere logged in their throat, felt the echoes of her vengeful pledge being whispered into their ears.

Shikhandi was born to fulfill those pledges; had always known that all these civilized trappings were little more than petty inconveniences put in the path of their destiny.

But today. . . today Shikhandi felt a roaring in their blood, a yawning chasm of rage opening deep within their jagged bones, slicing open every single of their old wound. Today Shikhandi felt what being alive must have actually felt like, instead of just being a walking corpse bearing the brunt of oaths from their past life. Because there, not even twenty feet away from them stood _Mahamahim Bheeshm._

His silver hair was tied back, and there wasn't a hint of finery on him: yet the armored metal protecting his chest gleamed like gold under the blazing Sun, his swinging sword shinning like silver, and the quiver with endless arrows at his back, it was the same one he had used all those decades ago while fighting off Salva. But he looked old now, _so very old_ ; still he stood tall, bathing the battlefield with the blood of his enemies.

The undefeated warrior of Hastinapur— _glorious as a God, regal as death._ But not for long.

"Bheeshm," the steady, cold voice wasn't one Shikhandi recognized as their own; it came from a foreign place buried somewhere deep within them as they knocked an arrow into their bow and aimed at him, their movements precise and controlled from years worth of practicing, _waiting for this moment_.

But Kurukshetra was not a place for verbal communication; the clattering of weapons and the deafening sound of hooves on sot swallowed any sound which wasn't a battle cry. And yet, even from nearly six yards away, Shikhandi watched as Bheeshm froze.

His face was covered with streaks of blood which wasn't his own, one hand tearing open the armour of a _maharathi_ from the army of the _Pandavs,_ his blood drenched sword in the other, as it stopped mid blow in the air. He turned to look at Shikhandi and they braced themselves to be met with the blatant arrogance of his they remembered from all those years ago; but his eyes. . . his eyes were empty, twin windows to a bottomless abyss of misery.

Bheeshm let go of the _maharathi_ he had nearly killed to face them from across the battlefield, his grip on his weapons went slack too as if, as if. . .

"I've been waiting for you all my life," Shikhandi felt his words more than they heard Bheeshm saying them; as if a phantom wind had carried it to them.

 _Good_ , Shikhandi had waited too _,_ all their life and then some more for this, _for him and his blood_. They didn't realize that they had loosed their arrow until it hit Bheeshm and the sword fell off his hands.

_Shikhandi felt themself_ _flinch_ ; the person who was born to be the reason behind his death flinched as their arrow pierced through Bheeshm's armour and embedded itself into his chest. 

A name echoed through them as Bheeshm pulled the arrow out and blood trickled down his armour; a memory, _an ancient calling_.

Their hands began to coat with a sheen layer of sweat, the _pratyancha_ of their bow stretched too tight as they took aim again.

Bheeshm nodded at them as if saying that he remembered his oath; the promise he had made all those years ago. . . his death was standing in front of him and he was accepting it. Whatever damper Shikhandi had put up on their rage snapped; arrows poured out of their bow, one after another, each hitting their mark, each drawing more and more blood.

And all the while, the calling within Shikhandi grew louder and louder, their ears filling with a dull roaring.

Shikhandi hated the tears that slipped down their face; they didn’t even know why they were crying. Perhaps they were tears of gratification, as Bheeshm's blood reddened his chariot, washing away Amba's disagree at last. 

Shikhandi could almost feel their existence narrowing down to that one point of time, where the lines between time and space blurred, where they were yet again Amba, and the years of their torment became insignificant. All that mattered was vengeance, his blood. _Prabhas' blood_. 

Shikhandi's vision distorted as the name clang through them; their arm shook uncontrollably and the downpour of their arrows missed the mark, landing on the wheel of the Bheeshm's chariot instead.

_Prabhas_. 

Even across the distance, across the yards of blood, grotesquerie, and the greatest war human kind had known of, the space between them went taut.

_Prabhas_.

Shikhandi remembered then, as they watched Bheeshm falling out of the their chariot, his old body blooded and pierced with uncountable number of their arrows, they remembered.

_I am the reason of the curse of the Vasus. . ._

The rage Shikhandi had been carrying within themselves for years, _lives_ , fell quiet; the entire battlefield fell quiet as Mahamahim Bheeshm staggered to stand up on his feet, and failed. 

_I am the reason why my husband, Prabhas, is forced to endure the hardships of mortal life. . ._

Bheeshm fell backwards but theshaft of the arrows, _their arrows_ , kept him from hitting the ground, his body impaling itself up on the arrows instead.

_Let me also be the reason for his redemption._

The scream that to tore through Shikhandi's throat wasn't entirely human; it was the gut wrenching sound of long impending sorrow, of helplessness, of longing for something one could never attain. . .


End file.
